


A Spoonful of Sugar

by itsmylifekay, WhatTheBodyGraspsNot



Series: I'll love you in the cornfields, I'll love you in the hay; I'll love you back in Brooklyn where my heart still loves to stay [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Chester - Freeform, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Sick Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-20
Updated: 2014-09-20
Packaged: 2018-02-18 03:44:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2334032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsmylifekay/pseuds/itsmylifekay, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatTheBodyGraspsNot/pseuds/WhatTheBodyGraspsNot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I’m fine, Steve had said.</p>
<p>This happens every year around this time, Steve had said.</p>
<p>It’s just allergies or something, Steve had said.</p>
<p>And yet here Bucky is, elbow deep in trying to make soup and not trip over Chester and answer all of Mrs. Rogers’s doting phone calls and do laundry so Steve has clean sheets while he fucking dies in their bedroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Spoonful of Sugar

 

****

_I’m fine_ , Steve had said.

_This happens every year around this time_ , Steve had said.

_It’s just allergies or something_ , Steve had said.

And yet here Bucky is, elbow deep in trying to make soup and not trip over Chester and answer all of Mrs. Rogers’s doting phone calls and do laundry so Steve has clean sheets while he fucking _dies_ in their bedroom. Because guess what? This isn’t allergies. This isn’t _Oh, I’m fine, Buck_. This is Steve lying in bed, pale and congested with a body temperature that’s rising through the goddamn roof as Bucky stirs the soup that’s not really getting hot on the stove.

Chester weaves between Bucky’s legs, and Bucky just about trips and faceplants onto the kitchen floor.

Jesus Christ.

Bucky’s just about to check on the laundry when truly horrendous coughing rings out from the bedroom.

“Steve,” he calls out, sticking his head out into the hallway,  “Are you drinking?”

_Are you fucking hydrating?_ is what Bucky wants to say, but he said that once and Steve actually bit him. Hard. So he’s staying far away from that.

“Leave me alone,” Steve rasps back, obviously trying to sound menacing and failing. “I’m fine.”

“Fine, my ass…” Bucky mumbles to himself, pulling the clean sheets out of the washing machine and stuffing them into the dryer. “Drink!” He shouts back. And really he wouldn’t have to nag Steve about this if the little shit would’ve taken care of himself in the beginning--didn’t sit and wait and lie about it until it got so bad that he’s now bedridden (he’d thought Mrs. Rogers was joking when she said Steve wouldn’t go to bed until he passed out in the streets somewhere-- but apparently she was completely one hundred percent fucking serious).

Chester is making noise in the kitchen, a tin of something clattering to the floor and drawing a rather drawn out and annoyed sigh from Bucky.

And Steve’s coughing again. “Drink. Steve, drink. I’m fucking serious,” he threatens, making his way back into the kitchen to right whatever Chester has knocked down.

“Don’t fucking mother me, _James._ ” Steve shoots back. “I don’t want to drink the stupid water. And you can’t make me.”

Bucky suppresses the urge to groan. “I can and I fucking will. Don’t push me.” He leans down to pick up the metal container of now dirty kitchen utensils (thanks to Chester), not knowing if Steve heard him or not, and not particularly giving a shit.

That’s when the soup explodes--fucking bubbles up over the sides of the pot because Bucky was too impatient and cranked the heat way up.

The kitchen’s off-white walls are splattered with minestrone soup, chunks of celery and noodles sticking onto the ceiling where Bucky will probably have to climb onto a chair to reach.

Fucking perfect.

Bucky quickly turns the stove’s heat down, doing his best to dodge the still bubbling soup. He manages to save maybe a third of it, but a third is better than nothing, so he pours it into a bowl and makes his way toward the bedroom. (He’ll clean the mess up after Steve has some fucking food in his stomach, whether he wants it or not.)

When he gently kicks the door open further, he’s met with Steve (surprisingly still in bed--yes, he’s climbed out the window at least three times already in an attempt to escape what he calls _‘Bucky’s oppressive regime’_ ), and then there’s Chester...curled up on Steve’s fucking face, as if Steve wasn’t having enough issue breathing with his lungs filling up with god knows what.

“Off, cat,” he says, putting the soup on the bedside table and nudging at the furball. Chester meows at him once then slowly extracts himself from the top of Steve’s airways.

Steve’s bleary eyes are already glaring at him. “He was fine where he was.”

_Fine where he was_ … Bucky just doesn’t even say anything, doesn’t want to fight about this particular issue--he’s already got his work cut out for him… “You need to eat.”

“Don’t-” Steve starts, then breaks off into another fit of coughing. “Don’t tell me what I need to do.”

“Someone needs to,” Bucky huffs, settling down on the edge of the bed and bringing the bowl of soup into his lap. “Your mother’s certainly trying to--fucking called me four times already today.”

And, okay, Bucky loves Steve’s mother, but come on. Two times is proper concern. Three times is excessive. Four times is grounds for Bucky to stop picking up.

“I _know._ ”  Steve groans, rough and crackling. “I threw our cells in the garage because both-” His voice catches and he stops to cough wetly in his sleeve. “Both our mom’s called while you were in the shower.”

_So that’s where his phone’s been..._

But augh. Of course they did. It’s like they know _exactly_ how incapable of being a mother hen Bucky is. And that certainly explains why the hell Steve was awake this morning, just _half an hour_ after Bucky’d finally gotten him to fall asleep.

But this is just one more tangent that’s putting off the reason Bucky came in here for in the first place. So he picks the bowl up from his lap, scooping a mouthful of the minestrone into the spoon and holding it out in front of Steve’s frown. “Open up.”

“No,” Steve glares. “I’m not a baby. I’m fine and I-” He has to stop to cough again. “I can feed myself.”

And Bucky swears to fucking God that he’ll start making airplane noises if he has to. “Steve. You need something in your stomach.” He moves the spoon closer, “Humor me.”

“I said _no_.” Steve yells, or tries to yell. It’s raspy and terrible and it ends with him in a horrible coughing fit, doubled over and honestly sounding like he’s going to break.

Bucky lets the spoon drop back into the bowl, trading it instead for the glass of water on the nightstand, which he now holds out toward Steve. “You sound like shit, pal.”

Steve takes the glass and Bucky is very thankful he put a straw in (no matter how much Steve had bitched about it before), because right now Steve’s hands are shaking too much for him to be able to drink out of it otherwise. Steve takes a few reluctant sips then says a reedy, “I feel like shit” before handing Bucky back the water and burying his head in between his knees. “I hate this.”

If Bucky was a complete asshole, he would mention the fact that it’s Steve’s fault that he’s this sick in the first place. But he’s not a complete asshole, at least not now. Not when Steve is crumpling up like this and so obviously disgruntled.

So Bucky reaches out, pushes the hair falling over Steve’s face back and presses his mouth to Steve’s forehead. He’s warm. Way too warm. “Still burnin’ up,” Bucky mumbles against him before bringing his lips together and leaving a kiss on Steve’s forehead. “Gonna need to take your temperature again soon.” Because as much as Bucky might enjoy his method, it’s in their best interest to use an actual thermometer every once in a while.

And somewhat surprisingly, Steve doesn’t fight him on it, just makes a small noise and turns his head to look at the muted light making its way through the curtains.

Bucky watches him quietly, voice now much more soothing. “Can you eat a little for me?”

Steve shakes his head, but it lacks any of the anger or stubbornness from before.

And this isn’t the first time a coughing fit has rendered Steve pliant, so Bucky whips out a quick, “Please, Steve?” before he loses his chance.

“But ‘m not hungry, Buck.” Steve mumbles.

“I know,” Bucky sighs, running his fingers through Steve’s hair again, “I know you’re not. But it’s important. You’re not gonna feel better if you don’t eat.”

There’s a small pause then the bed creaks, the mattress shifting ever so slightly as Steve slowly pushes himself up against the headboard. He takes a moment to catch his breath after the movement then holds a hand out to Bucky expectantly.

There’s a moment where Bucky just looks at him, unconvinced, then he shakes his head at the headstrong man before him. “You’re gonna spill it all over yourself. Lemme do it.” And then he’s got the bowl and the spoon and everything right back into position, spoon hovering near Steve’s mouth.

But Steve’s got this broken look in his eyes like he _knows_ Bucky’s telling the truth and his pride’s telling him to fight it, say something sassy back and just do it himself; but another part is telling him he’s sick and needs to eat and dropping hot soup all over his lap is not going to help anything. Bucky’s rooting for the second one.

“Buck…” Steve mumbles, obviously still not quite decided, hovering between anger and acceptance.

So Bucky decides to help him along. Give him something else to focus on. Like he’s not doing it because he _can’t_ but because Bucky wants him to. “Please, Stevie? I want to do it.”

And Steve huffs out a breath, darts his eyes to the side then says, “Fine,” so quiet Bucky can hardly hear it.

But he does, he takes it as a go-ahead and brings the spoon close enough that Steve doesn’t even need to lean forward, just has to open his mouth so Bucky can tip the spoon past his lips.  

And they start up a rhythm, Bucky becoming quickly entranced watching the spoon press against Steve’s lower lip, silver against pink, while Steve just stares into his eyes with a defeated kind of shame. So Bucky decides to talk while they do this, keep Steve thinking about other things, like how much Bucky fucking loves him.

“You’re real pretty like this, Stevie.” He murmurs softly, “Pretty all the time though.”

Steve snorts between mouthfuls but a blush has colored his cheeks and Bucky knows better than to think Steve doesn’t like this. (Because Steve may be proud and stubborn, but he knows the truth when he hears it and Bucky thinks Steve is fucking gorgeous.)

“When you’re feeling better, we’ll go out somewhere. Dress up and have a nice dinner. Or we could see a movie. You’ve been wanting to see that new documentary about the bears, haven’t you? We can go see that. Just wanna take you somewhere you like. Love seeing you happy Stevie.”

Steve swallows the last bit of soup Bucky’d spooned past his lips then reaches out to fix a weak grip on the front of Bucky’s shirt. “I’d like that,” he admits, voice sounding better but still not good, still too broken and airy. “I like going places with you.”

Bucky smiles, setting the bowl back down onto the dresser. “Me too,” he says, then climbs over until he’s sitting snugly against Steve on the bed, an arm reaching out to pull him in closer. “But you gotta feel better for us to do that. So why don’t you try and get some rest, huh?”

“Yeah…” Steve whispers, then he tugs a bit more from where he’s still got a hand tangled in Bucky’s shirt. “You gonna lay down with me?”

It does sound tempting, what with the mess still in the kitchen and Chester probably running amuck somewhere else, doing God knows what. Laying here with Steve sounds like the perfect distraction from all of that. “Whatever you want, pal.”

Bucky scootches down against the headboard, bringing Steve with him until they’re both laying down, Steve resting his head on Bucky’s chest.

They’re quiet for a minute, just the sound of Bucky’s steady breaths and Steve’s more labored ones, both of them tired despite the afternoon sun outside the window. Then, Steve wraps his arm tighter around Bucky’s middle and nuzzles closer to Bucky’s chest, lips right above his heart as he whispers, “Thanks, Buck.”

“Love you,” Bucky murmurs in reply, brushing a thumb gently over Steve’s cheek and eyeing Chester as he jumps back onto the bed. But the cat just stares at him and meows, then curls up directly between their feet, licking its paw once before settling down to sleep. And Bucky can’t help but smile fondly at the picture their little family makes, perfect in all the ways that it fits together. Because aren’t they just a goddamn Hallmark card?

He bends down just enough to press a kiss to the top of Steve’s head then keeps his lips there for minutes afterwards, just breathing in the smell of Steve and home and family as Steve finally drifts off to sleep, protected and hopefully healing curled up on top of Bucky’s chest.

 

 ---+---


End file.
